


Five Times John Didn't Kiss Sherlock and One Time He Did

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Bisexual John, Confused John, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, Schmoop, Sherlock is a Brat, Slow Build, Whiny Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-23 21:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7480143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simple and sweet.  John comes to terms with his sexuality while he and Sherlock sort out their mutual, mutually confusing feelings for one another.  There will be confusion.  There will be fluff.  There will be sexual tension and romance.  There will be kissing!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Turn and Run

**Author's Note:**

> I have been so bad with updating and finishing fics in the past, so I've decided to use a simple, tried-and-true plot base this time. Chapter titles are taken from the song ['Over My Head' by The Fray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFRkpvvop3I)  
> The characters and setting of this story are being borrowed from Stephen Moffat.

“I can’t believe it,” Sherlock groused. “Two murders, three suspects, not a one with motive; I could find the killer by sundown if Lestrade would only let me in on the details!” He paced back and forth in a tight circuit across four square feet of the sitting room.  


John nodded vaguely, not bothering to look up. Sherlock had been a drama queen lately -- not that John could blame him. (Not that John could blame him _this_ time.) John was busy updating his blog, letting all the fans know that there was nothing to tell, that he’d have an entry ready for them as soon as there was. As soon as literally anything happened that Lestrade would allow Sherlock to take over, or Sherlock got hired freelance.  


As soon as Sherlock stopped driving John and Mrs Hudson up the wall with his dramatics.  


_Nothing to see here,_ John wrote. _The consulting detective hasn’t been consulted in weeks. I know you lot are itching for your fix; trust me, we here at Baker Street are, as well._  


“As if Lestrade does much good for London at whole,” Sherlock went on. As per usual, not caring that John was barely listening. “He does quite a lot more sitting on his arse in that office, delegating --”  


And _there_ was the line. “That will be quite enough, Sherlock Holmes,” John warned. “Lestrade is a good worker, and a good friend to the both of us, and you will not speak badly of him to me.” He spun in his chair and craned his neck to make eye contact with the (impossibly) tall man behind him. “Clear?”  


“Don’t talk down to me, John. I am not a child.”  


“You could fool me. _Are we clear?”_ One thick eyebrow arched up. Challenging.  


Sherlock gave a theatrical sigh. “Yes, Dr. Watson.” He glared directly down at John, his face impassive. All but his eyes, which held something almost like mischief.  


John looked down to hide his face. _Dr Watson._ God. What Sherlock did to him when he got like this…  


When he got stroppy. Bratty, you could call it, if he wasn’t a grown man, for heaven’s sake!  


When he pushed John right up to the edge of his patience, then drew back and made John fall into…whatever he and Sherlock fell into with each other. Push-and-pull. Mutual firmness. Something akin to _like_ …to more than John was willing to deal with and feelings he wasn’t quite ready to sort out. To labels he hadn’t come to terms with bearing.  


John turned his chair back around and stared at the blinking cursor on his screen for a moment. _Fuck._ He stood up and ran a finger through his (annoyingly) receding hair. Sherlock had broken his concentration with his tantrum. Their fans would have to wait until tomorrow to be updated on the lack of updates.  


Sherlock’s breathing was audible behind John, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and soft. “I…John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean --” He broke off. Not good at emotional. Not very good where his intellect couldn’t help him. Which was frustrating, on top of embarrassing, on top of stressful. Because that was Sherlock, causing huge tangles of feelings to knot in John's stomach with his simplest, most common traits.  


John felt Sherlock’s hand, flat against his shoulder blade, felt a warm handprint there. He spun around, breaking the contact.  


_“John,”_ Sherlock said earnestly. His lips were parted just a little bit. John thought about touching them, about leaning forward, closing the scant inches between them. He thought about all the repercussions melting away.  


“I know, Sherlock,” John muttered, knowing that he probably sounded tired and fed up. That he was, but not fed up with Sherlock. Fed up with these feelings, with all the kinetic energy in the room. Exhausting him, “it’s okay. Okay?”  


Sherlock nodded, his eyes wide. He had his problem-solving face on.  


John gave a curt nod and turned. Sherlock stood alone next to the desk, left, looking for all the world like he was trying to solve a riddle.


	2. Losing Arguments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's running. Sherlock's main line is "come on." Lestrade brings things out into the open (for John, that is).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been so bad with updating and finishing fics in the past, so I've decided to use a simple, tried-and-true plot base this time. Chapter titles are taken from the song ['Over My Head' by The Fray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFRkpvvop3I)  
> The characters and setting of this story are being borrowed from Stephen Moffat.

They were running.  


Fucking again.  


_“You’re falling behind!”_ Sherlock yelled over his shoulder. They were literally sprinting across the rooftops of tightly packed industrial buildings, and John wondered, through the pounding in his brain, when his life had become an action-film cliche.  


John stared at Sherlock’s billowing coat, a flag waving barely-visible in the darkness. _“I have a bum leg!”_  


“Liar.” Sherlock slowed down a bit, letting John catch up. He was smirking, and not even a bit short of breath. “Now come on. I need your help.” He slowed more, till they were only walking quickly.  


“Do you really?” John laughed, but when Sherlock turned, his eyes were cool and serious.  


“Of course.” He held John’s gaze for the longest moment, then grabbed his hand and broke back into a sprint suddenly enough that John felt like he’d gotten whiplash. _“Hurry up!”_  


John would have run his legs straight off to keep holding that hand. He thought he _might;_ Sherlock might not be as tall as his pictures made him seem, but he was still tall enough that one of his strides was two of John’s.  


When they got to the end of the last rooftop, floodlights shining upward around them, Sherlock finally came to a stop. He was suave, unaffected, as he rearranged his scarf -- it had been upset in the chase. John, on the other hand, was breathing in lunging gasps. He still clutched Sherlock’s hand, slim musician’s fingers wrapped tightly in his own; Sherlock gave him a sharp look, eyes drifting from their joined hands up to meet John’s, but he said nothing of it.  


John’s breathing slowly returned to normal. Sherlock watched him with a bit of concern for a moment, then cleared his throat sharply.  


John looked up, startled, and pulled his hand away. _You forget yourself, he admonished himself,_ and tried to gain some composure. “Right, then. We, ah, we should go down.”  


Sherlock had the decency, for once (really -- _for once),_ to at least pretend nothing was strange. He nodded, his face evenly edged. “Come on, then.”  


“Right.”  


They rushed down the stairs. There was a brief awkward moment at the roof’s door where they both attempted to hold it open for the other, but it passed unnoted.  


And suddenly they were on the ground again, in a circle of police in the middle of the street, and there seemed things more important -- or at least more pressing -- to John than Sherlock’s hand in his. And his shining, curious eyes. And his dirty little drawn-up _I know you better than you know yourself_ grin.  


“Lestrade,” Sherlock said loudly, striding forward. Lestrade turned and sighed, shook his head, and whispered something to the copper beside him. She nodded and patted him on the shoulder, then walked away.  


“Boys,” Lestrade said warily.  


“Greg.” John waved slightly.  


Lestrade turned his eyes up toward Sherlock. “I think we’ve got this one under control, Sherlock. Sorry to have wasted your time; if I’d thought we’d get here this quickly I wouldn’t have called you.”  


“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock told him, and pushed right past him. “I’m sure you’ve missed things, and I’d hate for you to leave even a detail out of your report.”  


John watched him with a little smile. “I sometimes wonder why I even bother coming along, truth be told.”  


Lestrade met his eyes with a knowing gleam. “I don’t. You’ve got a tie to him, John, in a way no one ever has. It’s not an accident.”  


“Well…”  


“No. You have. Sherlock would be lost without you. But you need to be explicit with him.”  


John sighed heavily. “Lestrade, for the last time, I’m _not gay.”_  


Lestrade just barely grinned. “Who said _anything_ about being gay?” He wandered back to Sherlock, and John watched, feeling like he’d been slapped, as they argued for a few moments.  


Sherlock huffed his way back to John. “Well, this has been fun.” He grinned, truly, humour sparkling in his teeth and eyes. “Shall we call a cab?”  


John looked at that grin, stretched pink lips and pointed, pricking teeth and laughter, and thought of pushing his own grin against it. Not really kissing, just rubbing, feeling. Just a solid press of skin against skin against teeth.  


Instead he nodded, pushed his chin away in a coy gesture. “Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm formatting by hand, so please feel free to bring any mistakes to my attention.  
> Hit me up on [my tumblr,](http://fourget-regret.tumblr.com/) where you can get to know the side of me that says "y'all" a lot.


	3. All I Needed Was the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confesses his feelings...which he himself doesn't really understand. Sherlock reveals what we all knew -- but John, apparently, didn't.  
> (Because he's unfathomably unobservant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been so bad with updating and finishing fics in the past, so I've decided to use a simple, tried-and-true plot base this time. Chapter titles are taken from the song ['Over My Head' by The Fray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFRkpvvop3I)  
> The characters and setting of this story are being borrowed from Stephen Moffat.

John slammed the door behind him, London slush sloughing off his boots and onto Mrs Hudson’s thick-piled entry rug. 

“John, dear? Is that you?” Mrs Hudson rushed out of her room. “Oh, you must be just freezing! I’d have put on a pot of tea had I known you would be home so soon.” She made her way in between John and the door and crowded him toward the stairs. “Go, go! Put on some warm clothes.”

John turned and smiled at her. “Mrs Hudson, you don’t have to look after Sherlock and I. You’re not our housekeeper.” 

She laughed heartily. “But you do quite need looking after, dear.” 

John nodded. “Well, I’m sure I’ll see you later.” 

As John opened the door to the flat, he was assaulted with the sharp smell of something coppery. He glanced around, then peeked into the kitchen. _There._ There Sherlock was, stirring something at the stove. John crept up behind him, and saw the scarlet bubbles in the pot. 

“God, no. No,” he groaned, “Sherlock Holmes, you are _not_ using the same pot I make soup in to boil _blood.”_

Sherlock didn’t look up. “Yes, I am. I’m experimenting. Don’t you worry, it’s not human. And I’ll bleach your pot out afterward.” 

“Wish I could bleach my _eyes_ out,” John muttered. “I’m going to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?” 

“Very much.” 

John fetched the kettle, and they worked side-by-side at the stove. It felt odd, making tea in companionable silence with a man who boiled blood in his spare time, but also oddly domestic. It made John stiffen, acutely aware of his proximity to Sherlock, and filled with a sense of longing that had been venturing closer and closer to the surface lately. 

“Come sit down and drink, Sherlock,” he ordered -- like Sherlock had ever _(ever)_ listened to him or was likely to now. 

Sherlock didn’t obey. “I’ll take it while I work, thanks.” 

“Sherlock,” John said, and as he watched Sherlock’s back, he made an impulsive decision. Brought on by the cold, by the proximity, by the fucking _blood on the stove._ (Blood! On the stove! He was still struggling to process that.) “Sherlock,” he said again, and his throat felt thick, “I’d like to talk to you. About something important…about feelings.” 

At the stove, Sherlock’s shoulders rolled back. His head went up as if a string was attached at the crown, like a marionette, and John could see his jaw working. 

“Okay,” he said finally. He turned off the stove, moved his pot. 

Sherlock sat down at the table and looked John in the eye intently. Slowly, torturously slowly in John’s mind, he lifted his cup and blew on it, lips pursed. 

“Sherlock,” John began. _(Why,_ he wondered, _are all my sentences starting with his name lately?)_ “When I met you, I told you I wasn’t gay.” 

“Right.” Sherlock cocked his head inquisitively. John realized with a jolt that he was the only person whom Sherlock didn’t seem to have all worked out. John cleared his throat; it didn’t get rid of the thick (sticky-full) feeling sitting at the base, and he was cognitively aware of his Adam’s apple. “Well, I’m still not.” 

“Noted. Is that all? I appreciate the update, John, but it doesn’t seem like something I needed to sit down to hear --” 

_“Will you be quiet for once!”_

Sherlock made a go-ahead gesture with his hand, and bit down on both lips, drawing them into his mouth. _Ridiculous_. 

“Good. Right, well. I think I might be…attracted to men. After all.” John looked at the table. “Sherlock, I feel…drawn to you. And I --” he clutched a fistful of his hair nervously, struggling for words, struggling for _air,_ sure that if Sherlock interrupted him again his brain would explode “-- I feel like you already know that.” 

Sherlock blew outward a bit, releasing his lips from his teeth, but said nothing, only continued to look at John steadily. 

“I think you know, Sherlock, that I feel something for you, something that I don’t know how or for that matter particularly _want_ to define, but I think you know it and I think -- and correct me if I’m wrong, tell the truth, and I will never bring it up again, but I think you lied when you told me you were straight, I think you feel something for me as well, and I can’t stand it anymore, I needed to say something.” John took a deep breath and tried to pretend that he wasn’t baring his soul in front of God and everybody -- to Sherlock. 

Silence met his slightly hysterical statement. 

“Sherlock?” John lifted his eyes from the table. “Say something.” 

The slightest smile. “I never said I was straight.” 

“You said you weren’t gay.” 

“I know what I said, John, and I didn’t lie to you. I’m _not straight."_

“Then what _are_ you?” John wasn’t being rude, and Sherlock seemed to understand that. Not rude, but earnest, eager. 

“John, I’m asexual.” Sherlock smiled a bit more fully now, exposing just a flash of teeth. 

“So…you feel nothing for me?” Not panicking. Not at all _completely losing his shit._ There is _nothing at all_ distressing about confessing your attraction to someone who turns out to be _fucking asexual._

And now Sherlock laughed, and it was lovely but mean, and all the wind went out of John like he’d been punched. 

“John,” Sherlock said. He finally wasn’t wearing his quizzical, puzzle-solving face. He looked like he had John all figured out. It was his _and now a note!_ face, his celebration face. “John, I do have feelings for you.” He spoke in the same clinical voice with which he told people the most basic things. “Likely not the same as yours, but still feelings. Romantic feelings.” 

John didn’t even think. He stood up, upsetting his cup and sending tea across the table. “I could kiss you right now,” he said on a soft exhale, and leaned forward, possibly to do just that -- he hadn’t quite decided when abruptly Sherlock stood up, as well. 

“I have an experiment to finish,” he whispered, and winked at John. And then he turned away and went back to the stove. 

John stared at the spilt tea, and decided to let it leave a stain. He had some brand-new terrifying feelings to work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm formatting by hand, so please feel free to bring any mistakes to my attention.  
> Hit me up on [my tumblr,](http://fourget-regret.tumblr.com/) where you can get to know the side of me that says "y'all" a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm formatting by hand, so please feel free to bring any mistakes to my attention.  
> Hit me up on [my tumblr](http://fourget-regret.tumblr.com/), where you can get to know the side of me that says "y'all" a lot.


End file.
